Page 37 of Skin and Bones

CHAPTER

NINE

The drive to Charleston was pleasant enough, though my nerves made it difficult to appreciate the verdant marsh views as we crossed the causeway connecting Grimm Island to the mainland. My vintage Karmann Ghia hummed contentedly along the highway while Hank sat beside me, his panama hat perfectly positioned on his silver hair, dressed in a seersucker suit that practically screamed retired federal judge.

“You’re grinding the gears, Mabel,” he commented mildly as I downshifted with perhaps more force than necessary. “This old girl deserves better treatment.”

My hands tightened on the steering wheel as we drove through the congested streets. “I feel like I should have practiced an interrogation technique or two. My experience is limited to asking customers if they’d like another scone.”

“This isn’t an interrogation,” Hank said, his voice carrying the measured tone that had likely calmed countless courtrooms. “It’s a conversation with a potentially valuable witness.”

“A conversation about a thirty-year-old murder that was covered up by half the island’s power players,” I pointed out. “Hardly afternoon tea.”

Hank’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “In my experience, the most effective legal strategy is often just good conversation paired with careful listening. Save the dramatic table-pounding for television courtrooms.”

“Is that what made you such a feared judge? Your conversation skills?”

“That,” Hank replied with a hint of a smile, “and an unerring ability to spot a liar at twenty paces. Forty-three years on the bench, you learn to be precise with language.” He glanced at me. “Besides, we have no evidence connecting Brooks to Elizabeth’s death. Just what we assume is his initial in her diary.”

I nodded, focusing on the road ahead as Spanish moss-draped oak trees gave way to the outskirts of Charleston. The morning sun glinted off the Cooper River as we crossed the bridge into the historic downtown.

“Take King Street,” Hank directed. “Brooks’ office is in that fancy new building near Marion Square. The one that looks like a glass spaceship landed on top of a brick warehouse.”

“I know the one,” I said, maneuvering through the increasingly congested streets. Charleston always felt like stepping into another century—until you hit traffic. Then it felt like being trapped in purgatory with tourists wielding selfie sticks.

As we drove, I snuck glances at Hank, realizing how little I knew about him despite all the years he’d been coming to my tea shop. Judge Henry “Hank” Hardeman was something of a legend in South Carolina legal circles, but he rarely spoke about his career or personal life.

“How well do you actually know Jason Brooks?” I asked, breaking the companionable silence.

Hank’s expression grew thoughtful, the lines around his eyes deepening. “Well enough to know his reputation. Smart man. Ambitious. Always calibrating which way the wind was blowing before he’d offer an opinion.”

“That doesn’t sound like someone who’d risk his career to help a college student investigating corruption.”

“People are rarely all one thing, Mabel,” Hank said, adjusting his cuff links—sterling silver scales of justice that had been a retirement gift from his clerks. “Brooks was different back then. Younger, more idealistic. Sometimes the years sand down our sharp edges, make us more accommodating.”

There was something in his tone that suggested personal experience, and I found myself curious about the man behind the judicial façade.

“Is that what happened to you?” I asked, unable to stop myself. “Did you become more accommodating with age?”

Hank barked out a laugh that filled the small car. “Good Lord, no. Just ask anyone who’s known me longer than a decade. I’ve only grown more obstinate with time.”

I smiled, thinking of the stern but fair-minded man who’d been a fixture at my tea shop for years. “Eleanor always said you were stubborn as an old mule,” I remarked, remembering his late wife fondly. She’d been a regular at my shop in its early days.

A shadow crossed Hank’s face at the mention of her name. “She would know better than anyone.”

“I still miss seeing her at the shop,” I said quietly. “Her book club was one of my first regular gatherings.”

“Forty-four years we were married,” he said, his voice softer than I’d ever heard it. “She was my third time at the altar, you know.”

“Third?” I couldn’t hide my surprise. Growing up on Grimm Island, I’d only ever known Hank with Eleanor. The idea that he’d had a life—marriages, even—before moving to the island was strangely jarring.

“Most folks on the island only know us from after I was appointed to the federal bench,” he said, seeming to read my thoughts. “But I was a practicing attorney in Charleston for years before that. Eleanor and I bought our weekend house here on Grimm Island in ’76, but I commuted to Charleston until my appointment in ’83. That’s when we moved here permanently.”

“So you had a previous life?” I prompted, intrigued by this new side of someone I thought I knew well.

“First was Catherine,” he said, a nostalgic smile playing at his lips. “College sweetheart. Married right after law school when I was twenty-five. Lasted less than two years. She wanted a husband who came home for dinner. I wanted to change the world one case at a time.”

“Then came Vivian,” he continued, gazing out the window at the historic homes we passed. “Brilliant attorney. We met while I was clerking for a judge and she was working at the DA’s office. Another brief experiment—all passion mixed with the excitement of law—a year of working together, living together, fighting together. We burned too bright too fast.”

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